


stolen friends & disease

by syntheticvoiddoll



Series: shots of engex [19]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, Ficlet, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28280862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syntheticvoiddoll/pseuds/syntheticvoiddoll
Summary: Drift can't tolerate being sidelined, let alone in the dire situation on Delphi.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Ratchet
Series: shots of engex [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070663
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> emetophobia warning

Drift shuttered his optics. What was the point in keeping them open when they were barely functioning and he was starting to taste them on the back of his glossa? That was a sensation he’d never imagined, not even in his worst nightmares.

And not that any of them were thrilled about the current situation, but Drift in particular _hated_ being grounded from the action. Even if it _was_ on the grounds of “probably dying” — in a plague house, that seemed like a pretty broad description.

His tanks lurched and he struggled to roll on his side. The only thing that could make this worse would be to purge his tanks and then inhale it. A pair of gentle hands steadied his shoulders and helped him support himself as he voided his tanks of whatever fuel had been stored there and… well, Drift didn’t really want to think about anything else that may have liquefied into his tanks.

Drift felt the flicker of an EM-field against his own and onlined his optics — it was a struggle, but he managed. He knew from the way that field felt against his own that it was no longer Ratchet who was shuffling around near his slab. “First Aid?” he said, when he could finally focus his optics. “Where’s Ratchet?”

The medic tilted his helm. “He went after Pharma. You should lay back down. I’ll get an IV so your tanks won’t get upset again.”

That wouldn’t do. When First Aid’s back was turned, Drift pushed himself onto uncertain pedes and trekked as quickly as he could out of the room. If they were all doomed, he’d prefer to go down fighting. Specifically before anyone from the DJD could arrive on the scene.

While it was an inspiring thought, moving was still a struggle. The rust in his joints made moving hard and rather more imprecise than he was accustomed to. With that in mind, Drift went ahead and unsheathed a sword. The last thing he wanted was to haul himself somewhere useful and not be able to draw one because his joints had all melted away.

Drift had to pause to collect himself; empty tanks and critically hurt was, unfortunately, a situation he wasn’t _completely_ a stranger to — though he was more used to injury than sickness.

He didn’t like sickness. It was easy to feel weak in the face of something uncontrollable, when he was used to ignoring and overcoming other pains.

Shaking off the thoughts, he finally got moving again. At least he had a trail to follow, as grim a thought as it was — it meant Ratchet was now suffering the same thing. It meant he needed to _hurry_.

He had debts to repay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet POV companion piece

So many things had happened in such a short span that Ratchet thought it was impossible to be shocked any further. Pharma aiming to take him down with him wasn’t shocking — in fact, he was surprised he’d lasted this long with how rapidly this disease progressed. But nothing really prepared him for the next instant, when there was a desperate cry of _“No!”_ and Drift appeared to fly out of nowhere, wielding one of those damnable blades and cutting Pharma at the wrists to send him plummeting away.

Of course, in doing this, the swordsmech had used what was left of his strength and collapsed on the snowy roof of the complex, the horrible red fluid the virus turned their innards into a creeping stain spreading around the mech’s frame.

“Drift…” he murmured. Drift didn’t so much as twitch, even when Ratchet kneeled next to him. He used his remaining hand to carefully turn the mech over; he didn’t need to lose the other arm right now either. The immense relief Ratchet felt to find him still functioning challenged maybe some of the things he’d just said to Pharma… but that wasn’t really his concern at the moment. “Hey, c’mon now. Stay awake. You think I can carry you this way? I only have one arm left and who knows how long it’ll stick around…”

Drift snorted and peeked an optic open with some effort. It was clear he could barely see.

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Glad _that_ makes you laugh,” he muttered.

“Well, it doesn’t matter, right? If there’s no cure, we’re doomed anyway…”

Ratchet frowned. “Working on that,” he replied. It was hard to focus on the avatar rooting around in the snow of Messatine’s surface, and on a conversation on the roof with Drift, but he managed. “Anyway, if that’s how you feel, what was the point of dragging yourself all the way up here to save me?”

Drift was quiet for so long, Ratchet thought he might have passed out for real. Then he sighed, a worrying liquid rattling echoing in his vents. “You know why,” he finally replied.

Ratchet pursed his lips. “What, Rodion again? Drift, I was just doing my job, there’s nothing — ”

But Drift shook his helm and coughed so violently he expelled more of the red rust from his throat. Ratchet was so distracted his avatar dropped the vial and he muttered curses under his intakes. “Not just that,” he struggled out. “I went on to kill so many. I — ”

“Shut up,” Ratchet hissed. He needed his concentration as much as he needed _not_ to have this conversation. “I already told you, you aren’t going to die today. So cut it out with the deathbed confessions. It’s not like my forgiveness would make a difference. It won’t change anything.”

Drift quieted, shuttering both of his optics again with another sigh. “It’d be a start,” he murmured.

Ratchet said nothing.


End file.
